


Candy Cane

by Professional_Creeper



Series: Holiday Bingo 2020 [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Cane Porn, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Cunnilingus, Doctor/Patient, Dom Dr. Frederick Chilton, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Injury Recovery, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Naughty Doctor Roleplay, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Sexual Roleplay, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28305909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: Long story short: you didn’tmeanto bully Frederick Chilton with seasonal baked goods, but that’s what happened.Dr. Chilton determines that since you think you're so "hysterical," he'll just have to cure you like the Victorian physicians
Relationships: Dr. Frederick Chilton/Reader
Series: Holiday Bingo 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093550
Kudos: 24





	Candy Cane

The sound of a cane clacking on the kitchen tiles startled you from what you had been concentrating on. Your heart leaped into your throat at his early arrival home—though it wasn’t unexpected. He often left work early, since he was still recovering.

“That smells delightful, my dear,” said Frederick Chilton, breathing in the spicy aroma of your holiday baking.

You turned, eyes wide, and tried to hide the counter you’d been hunched over behind your back.

His eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion. “What have you been doing?”

You chewed your lower lip, eyes dodging to the side.

His cane struck the tile floor louder as if to punctuate his impatience as he stalked toward you, eventually trapping you against the counter, his hips pressed demandingly against yours.

“I, um… burned some of the gingerbread.”

“Well, you have never been the most skilled baker…” His hand lifted to your cheek, flicking a smudge of flour off your nose with his thumb. “I can forgive you.” His eyes were warm and smiling, turning an on-the-surface callous comment into a profession of love. But you couldn’t melt into him this time. Burned cookies were not what you were nervous about.

And then he looked over your shoulder and saw it.

 _“What is this?”_ His voice pitched up a full octave—the dreaded squeak of fury.

A gingerbread man with blackened edges was holding a candy cane. You also put little frosting teeth on him with two rows of white dots. And a frosting tie pin. You had just finished your masterpiece when its scarred and lipless muse walked in.

In your defense, it seemed hilarious at the time.

“It’s gingerbread-Frederick!” you declared in a fit of laughter.

He frowned. His eyes closed. He sighed like a weary old pipe organ that had seen too much use and hadn’t been maintained in two centuries until he had vacated the air from the very bottom of his lungs.

“I thought it was cute!”

Frederick was on the verge of jumping into psychoanalysis mode, explaining—in medical terms—precisely what was wrong with you. Or he might walk up to his office and shut himself inside. He was still deciding how gravely stung he was by this and how seriously to take the offense. You watched the wheels turning in his mind and braced yourself.

His eyes opened like pure green hellfire and locked on you under a scowling brow. There was a crooked smile on his cheeks that was as unexpected as it was _terrifying_.

“You are on the naughty list now,” he scolded.

“W-wait…”

“Nothing but coal this year! I am throwing all of your presents into the harbor. Goodbye.” He turned sharply and marched toward the living room where wrapped boxes were arranged under the tree.

 _“Noooo!”_ you wailed, chasing after him. “Baby, I love you!”

“And one of them was a _puppy_ —now you have to live with that on your conscience.”

You doubled over laughing and lost a few paces on him, then sprinted to catch up, throwing your arms around his waist. You pulled him against your chest, nuzzling into the back of his tweed jacket and begging forgiveness.

He turned in your arms to face you. Gleeful anger still burned in his eyes.

“This is the rudest thing you’ve done since you filled my Porsche with popcorn.”

“That _was_ a good one.”

It was before you started dating, when you thought he was a pompous idiot, he thought you were an ignorant peon, and you took great merriment in revenging yourself on him. The pranks stopped when life kicked his ass so hard he deserved some change back on his karma, and somewhere along the line, you fell in love with his pompous idiot face.

His eyes flicked down over your soft lips and the breathless flush in your smiling cheeks. The iris that was not a contact lens dilated, darkening with whatever sinful thoughts were rushing through his mind. The polished head of his cane rubbed your inner thigh, warm from the heat of his hand, sending shocks of arousal through your body.

“Perhaps I can think of a more fitting punishment,” Frederick said, his low growl a delicious promise.

Frederick continued teasing you with his cane now that his annoyance had switched to arousal. Using the tapered end, he swatted the inside of your legs to spread them, all while mulling aloud the correct punishment for such a wicked, naughty creature.

“You thought this was funny, did you? Insulting me?”

“It was a _little_ funny.” You would have apologized, but the dark look in his eyes dared you to push him and find out what would happen. “Come on, I’m hysterical.”

Frederick’s face lit up dangerously. You didn’t know it, but you’d given him the answer he was searching for. “You know, female hysteria used to be a psychiatric diagnosis. All the way up to 1952,” he explained, his voice a calm, authoritative drawl. “When a woman showed too much… sexual desire… it was considered a disease to be cured. Do you need to be cured, my dear?”

You swallowed heavily, throat suddenly thick. There was nothing Frederick loved more than explaining arcane facts, and you had a feeling you liked where this was going.

“How would you cure me, doctor?” you asked coyly, fingers smoothing his lapels. A look of pleasure spread seductively over the remains of his lips, turning his permanently bared teeth into a devilish smile.

“Do you want to play?” he asked, an understood meaning to his question. As soon as you nodded, he snatched your hand off his jacket roughly and pulled you close, hissing in your ear, “Then find out.”

The sturdy dining room table was decorated with a red and green holiday runner and a poinsettia centerpiece. He set the flowers aside under the table and rolled up the runner to cushion your head. “Clothing off,” he ordered, watching attentively as you removed them, before having you lie down. He scowled with disappointment at the pile you’d left on the floor, and picked up each garment, folded them, and set them on a chair.

Across from the dining room, the main staircase curved upward to the second floor. Over the railing of the stairs ran a garland of fake pine with white string lights woven through it, tied loosely to the rail with festive bows. Frederick gave the decoration a firm yank, and the bows came undone, giving him a good fifty feet of glowing cable to work with.

“First, the patient must be bound. For her own safety, of course,” he explained, prowling around the table, the sound of his cane dull on the rug.

You shivered as he looped a bight of lights around your wrists, binding them together above your head.

As an aside, he leaned down and rather sheepishly advised, “Do not struggle too much—we would not want you to be electrocuted.” He reviewed your safe words and briefly negotiated what he planned to do, though you both knew each other’s boundaries well by now.

He smiled at his work when he was finished. Your legs were spread open and tied to separate table legs, and your arms were fastened together above your head, leaving you completely helpless and exposed. And at each place you were bound, you glowed like a wreath. A wrapped Christmas present just for him.

Keeping his intelligent green eyes locked on yours, he bent over the side of the table, lowering his mouth—his gnarled flesh—to your soft skin. He watched, a smirk tugging his cheek, as you shivered the moment his teeth made contact with your breast. What he had left of lips could not easily form a seal, and so sucking bruises was out of the question, but he was proficient at nipping with just the right amount of pressure, riding the line of pleasure and pain. He kissed his way down your naked body in this manner, swirling his tongue around a nipple, lower and lower, over your sensitive belly.

Blushing, eyes defensive, he suddenly said, “I would never do this to a real patient, you know.”

“I know.”

“I have been accused of corrupt practices, but I assure you my ventures into the unorthodox do not include sexual assault.”

“Frederick. I know. But thank you for saying it.”

The flush in his cheeks rose—the way you implicitly trusted him always took him by surprise, no matter how long you were together—but his demeanor became composed and seductively controlling again.

“The standard treatment for hysteria was—” his mouth worked your skin, then came up for breath “—pelvic massage. Until the patient experienced hysterical paroxysm.” He nipped just below your belly button. “That means an orgasm, my dear.”

You whimpered, arms helpless above your head. In reality, that sounded horrifying. But the thought of _Dr. Chilton_ , a corrupt Victorian psychiatrist with total control over you, making you come under the guise of treatment had you aching with need.

“Physicians had all sorts of devices for delivering a gynecological massage. Water jets. The vibrator was invented for medical use—”

As he reached the foot of the table, he grabbed your hips and pulled them forward. Your back slid easily over the polished surface, your knees bending and your arms straightening as your ass came to rest right at the table’s edge.

“—But for our purposes, we shall simply have to improvise.”

His tongue darted out and tasted your clit, making your spine arch off the table. When he pulled back right away, you were overwhelmed with the urge to grab his head and push him down between your thighs.

“Do I have your consent for this procedure, miss?”

“Yes, doctor,” you whined, writhing in your glowing restraints. “Whatever you think is necessary.”

He gave a low hum, a wicked, patronizing look on his face. “You know I only have your health in mind. And you are exhibiting all of the textbook signs of hysteria. Observe how wanton you are, not even ashamed of the slutty pose you’re in.” He ran his fingers through your folds. “How wet you are already. _Tsk-tsk._ ”

You moaned in frustration, earning another disapproving shake of Frederick’s head. Then, to your dismay, he walked away.

“F-Frederick?” you called out, breaking character, twisting in the Christmas garland to see where he went. The sink was running in the kitchen, where you knew there was extra lubricant stashed. You laid back with another frustrated groan. He didn’t tell you to get up. He was still playing, and making you wait was part of the game. Part of your punishment.

When he returned, he carried his cane rather than using it. Its blunt silver head was shiny with lube. Your eyes widened.

“I told you we would have to improvise.”

He dragged the metallic head along the inside of your thigh and you yelped at the sensation, goosebumps erupting over your skin.

“It’s freezing!” you protested, squirming to get away.

Frederick chuckled and pulled up a chair. Sinking down on it with a groan as his weary bones and stiff, scarred skin settled, he sat between your legs like you were his own feast.

“A doctor always sanitizes his instruments first.”

That explained the running water. You were glad he was fastidious enough to clean it first if he was going to—oh god, he was going to—fuck you with his cane. “But why does it have to be _cold?_ ”

“Ah,” he tipped his head. “The ice-water rinse was just for fun.”

You gasped as the rounded metal handle plunged into you, biting your lip and fighting yourself not to fight the restraints—which was worse, psychologically, than having real restraints to fight and tug at and feel resistance from. Those festive white lights glowed cheerfully above your head and merrily around your ankles and dared you to break them. Because of the temperature difference, you felt _everything_ as the blunt end stretched your tight opening, then the quickly narrowing shaft as it pushed deeper, and dragged backward along your walls as he retracted it again. You felt every bump and imperfection, every geometric design stamped into the silver handle as it plunged deeper still. It warmed quickly to match your body temperature, but you were already shaking with the flood of sensation.

He began thrusting faster, deeper. The hard metal was narrower than his cock, but had no give to it, and Frederick was merciless. Sobbing moans escaped your lips, and he leaned forward and began licking your clit, turning your sobs to full-throated wails.

“Oh, doctor… doctor… yes!”

A knot tightened in your core, a ball of heat and tension melting and pooling in your lower back. The flared handle was pressing exquisitely on the sensitive spot inside you with every pass, and his tongue was wet and relentless and lewd.

Frederick began murmuring between strokes of his tongue, telling you what a good girl you were, how well you were doing, and his praise made every sensation stronger, the knot tightening faster, so tight and hot it could rip you apart.

“Oh god, doctor,” you moaned. “I… I’m going to come!”

“That’s it… come in Doctor Chilton’s mouth… Good. That’s it…”

He plunged the cane deeper, hitting your end, as deep as it could go, and the agony and pleasure of it broke you. A few more punishing thrusts and the torturous wet circling of his tongue, and the knot snapped. Your eyes rolled back and lost focus as your body convulsed, hips jerking with every new stroke of his tongue.

He didn’t stop.

As you cried out, breath shattering, back rigid and arching off the table, he didn’t stop thrusting the head of the cane into you or lapping at your swollen, burning clit. He delighted in your torture as the stimulation became too much, smirking as you begged him to stop and struggled against the bindings. He smirked because, however much you pretended to protest, you didn’t say the safe word. He kept going, though he eased up a little, switching to slow, broad laves and shallow thrusts, tilting the cane so that its widest point would press more firmly against your sweet spot. He kept going until your pleading, shaking cries turned to moans of pleasure again. Then his tongue pointed and sped its pace.

You noticed one of his hands had dropped to his lap and was moving in slow, steady strokes. You couldn’t see what was hidden under the table, but his forearm moved up and down. Up and down. Eyes heavily-lidded, he watched you from between your thighs. With every twitch and moan he elicited from your body, his breath hitched and his eyes closed. And his hand stroked faster.

“Are you pleasuring yourself, doctor? Is that professional?” You attempted to sound scandalized, but the words came out in lustful breaths.

“The doctor needs relaxation as well,” he purred, mouth buried in your warmth. “Are you questioning my therapy?”

“No, doctor. I only meant to suggest you could use _me_ to pleasure you. I promise I’m better than your hand.”

He sucked a trembling breath through his nose, green eyes clouding over with desire. The cane stopped moving and slowly drew out of you, stretching your opening as it popped out. He stood, but as he stared down at you, his eyebrows were drawn low and stern.

“Promiscuous behavior.” He tut-tutted. “I see the first round of treatment failed to cure you. Now, what can be done about that?” He pretended to ponder as he bent above you, his hard erection pressing between your legs. He lowered himself to your ear, teeth scraping the shell. “You want the doctor to fuck you?” He nipped the side of your neck, tongue lapping at your surging pulse. “That could be therapeutic… for us both…”

You took your chance, with him so close, you kissed the side of his face. He turned his head, eyes sparkling in the glow of the string lights, and let you capture his mouth. It was soft and needy, your lips parting to meet the ragged edges of his, closing again over one part or another of the healed flesh that surrounded his mouth. Your tongue darted over the marble of his teeth, and his tongue greeted it, ardent and agile and tasting of you. He moaned into your mouth, then pushed himself upright. Sneering down his nose, he was once again the corrupt Victorian physician.

“In the seventeenth century, semen was believed to have healing properties.” He fisted his red cock and glided its crown through your arousal to coat it. “So ejaculating inside a woman was considered curative. In fact, being fucked was the recommended prescription for hysteria.”

The head of his cock stretched your slick entrance. Two big hands gripped the outside of your thighs, long fingers digging into the fat. With one powerful movement, he slid you toward him over the edge of the table, impaling you on his full length. You cried out at the sudden stretch—so much thicker than the cane. He waited just a moment to be sure you were alright before his hips began to move. He set a fevered pace, filling you again and again.

“Ah—yes! I love your cock,” you gasped out.

Frederick grunted with every thrust, fingers bruising your thighs. “You’re so tight… You feel so good…” he groaned.

Watching his undisguised desire as he rutted into you made your own pleasure mount, the tension knotting inside you again. Your clit ached, warming with the friction of his possessive hips claiming you, cunt clenching around his cock as he split you apart.

His hands left your thighs and captured your breasts, tempted by the luscious way they bounced with every thrust. He kneaded them in his palms, squeezing them together. He pinched your sensitive nipples, and fire shot through you like they were connected to your clit—waves of sizzling heat tickled under your skin as he rolled and twisted them between his thumb.

“Let me come on your cock, Doctor Chilton… I want to come on your cock!”

His hips stuttered, breathing uncontrolled. “Yes,” he managed to pant. “Yes, let me feel you come.”

At the helpless sound of his urging—the dominant doctor falling apart—the knot of tension burst and snapped a second time, burning even hotter than the first as unbearable waves of pleasure licked over your already-spent body like flames. He thrust as your walls tightened around his hardness, struggling to pump his hips as you gripped him. He choked, doubling over until his sweltering forehead was buried against your shoulder. His hips snapped into you again by their own will—he was finished. His eyes squeezed shut, arms closing around you, snaking under you, hugging you so tightly to his chest you could barely breathe as his hips jerked and twitched and his warm seed flooded you.

Then he was still.

His breath trembled against your shoulder, humid and labored. Slowly, his arms uncoiled and released you from their python grip. He would be sweating, but most of his sweat glands were destroyed in the fire that took his skin, so his breath heaved as he rested on you.

“Can you get out of these knots on your own?”

You had already slipped a hand through and answered, “Yep,” as you stroked the back of his head.

“Good,” he sighed. “Because I am exhausted.”

Slowly, agonizingly, he lifted his torso from the table. His cock slipped out of you, and he immediately stopped up your mixed releases from leaking out with a dishtowel he’d had the forethought to stash within arm’s reach. He was always fastidious, your Frederick. Stains on the table would not do. He collapsed back down on the chair with a groan, eyes barely open as he watched you sit up and unwrap the festive holiday garland from your ankles.

“Take care of me?” he whined softly.

You laughed. “You know, the dominant partner is usually the one in charge of aftercare.”

He pouted like the adorably pathetic man he was, underneath all the pompous trappings. God, he was cute. You only teased him gently about it. Frederick’s health meant physical effort took him a long time to recover from, and the current result was not unexpected. Especially when he’d been working all day.

You cleaned him up, tucking him back into his pants, peeling him out of his tweed jacket, and offered him some cold water. Once you dressed again, you wheeled him into the living room (his wheelchair was useful for situations like these, though he didn’t need it much anymore). You guided him to the couch, and snuggled up next to him with a blanket.

The tall Christmas tree in the corner filled the room with a multicolored ambient glow and the fresh scent of balsam. Low voices whispered back and forth. His fingers gently stroked your hair as you rested together. Comfortable. Soon Frederick’s half of the conversation paused, and yours kept going, smiling as you told him how good he made you feel, and making playful guesses at the biggest presents under the tree. His breathing was steady and light.

When he woke up, you would offer him some of the gingerbread you baked. The not-burned ones. And candy canes. Maybe you could eat them while watching a holiday movie together. That sounded like a lovely evening.

And maybe later, you could ask him to “cure” you again.


End file.
